


Quiet Dreams (You Keep To Yourself)

by ah_maa_zing



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak, F/M, Summer of Olicity, olicity road trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ah_maa_zing/pseuds/ah_maa_zing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Driving off into the sunset was the easy part, but it's on the road that Oliver and Felicity learn how to finally put to bed the demons that haunt them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Dreams (You Keep To Yourself)

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet came to me as a fully formed thing, based on the theory that Oliver wasn't the only one with recurring bad dreams. I enjoyed turning the tables a little bit here; making it so that Felicity finally has a moment to process the things that have happened in the past year, and for both Oliver and Felicity to help each other heal. 
> 
> Thanks to agirlandhershows (on Tumblr) for being my first reader, and champion.

Some nights are easy. There's laughter and banter and light. Little nips and teases that lead to a playfulness they both enjoy. It's a revelation for both of them - the idea that there's fun to be had. A joke and a pinch, drunken dinner dates, strokes and pats that no longer have to be stolen, uproarious laughter between kisses. Such nights are fun, they’re easy, and they’re filled with joy. But they don’t linger. Like the lifespan of a mayfly, nights like this are ephemeral; burning bright in the moment, and by morning, leaving only the pleasant afterglow of new love.

Some nights weigh heavier on the soul. It's as if the world has stripped away, and there's a stillness to the air, a silence that is deafening. Nothing exists but pure sensation, and those are the nights that remain with them long after the day turns. Nights like these come without warning, but they always seem to begin in the same way.

At first, Oliver thinks nothing of it, caught up as he is in the giddy  _newness_ of the whole thing. There's an alien quality to this unfettered happiness, unaccompanied by the customary guilt and fear. His heart feels boundless, unburdened by the denials he’s no longer forcing himself to believe. He could be floating on air, but at the same time, he feels grounded for the first time in years. Rooted, content, and at peace.

It takes him a few weeks to clear his mind to it, but eventually it dawns on him that on nights such as this there’s a pattern to her ministrations. It seems to be their private version of Groundhog Day - a pop-culture reference he's pleased he can make - and if it weren't for the fact that it breaks his heart, he might find it amusing. 

It's almost as if there’s a code embedded in his skin somewhere that her clever fingers are teasing out, calling into action. As her hands explore his body - his face, his arms, his chest - they always halt for a moment at his left shoulder, just above his heart. It’s the Bratva tattoo she kisses first, like it’s a ritual to signal the start of something, and it takes Oliver longer than it should to realise that it’s not the tattoo she’s loving, but the scar placed a few inches above it. The bullet wound that brought them together. The first time he trusted his life in her hands, the first time she saved him. It’s always a light kiss - no more than a brush of her lips, really - but it’s the beginning of something, the beginning of  _them_ ,and it seems important to honour that.

Next, her hands travel across his chest with a practised ease, always coming to rest on the thin welt of his newest scar. Here, she takes her time. The angry pink line is still incongruent against the tan of his skin, and her fingers trace it from top to tail as if expertly charting a course on a map: soft but firm, destination already in sight. Felicity's eyes focus on the descent of her hand, and his eyes fix on her face, bent down in concentration. He doesn’t touch or reach for her - not then. His fingers ache to brush the strands of her hair that shield her face from his gaze, but Oliver knows that this moment - this ritual - is important for her. It’s the scar that brought them together and the scar that nearly tore them apart. The beginning, and what might have been the end.

So he keeps his own hands at bay, fingers clenching into fists as he schools his heart to practise patience and to wait...just wait. When she finally looks up at him, her eyes shine with pools of unshed tears. The scar no longer hurts, but the fire that burns in Felicity's eyes cuts into his belly as sharply as a sword once did. Words aren’t necessary now: he knows what this is. The world pulls away and for a moment, it’s like she’s right there at the top of that mountain with him, watching him fall. It’s ridiculous, of course. She can’t really know what it was like - she wasn’t _there_. But in this solitary moment, as his hand comes up to meet hers, his thumb stroking a silent missive into her palm, it feels real. It’s beyond all logic and reason, but she looks at him like she  _knows_ , like she sees the fall, like she feels it, like it’s  _her_ falling; like the friction of her hand against the rubber of his scar is a gossamer-thin thread connecting his  _then_ to her  _now_ , allowing her to see what he keeps buried so deep within him.

Felicity always moves first. As slow and leisurely as it begins, the tempo now shifts dramatically. Lightning-fast she moves, reaching up, pushing her body against his, falling into him with such speed that he rocks back on his knees and has to throw out a hand to stop the fall. Her arms reach around him, holding him so close he can feel the erratic thuds of her heart beating a crescendo against his. Her kiss is so fierce he feels like she’s pouring the full force of her love into him. She clutches at his hair, her fingers digging into the back of his neck, like she worries he might disappear if she loosens her grip, and he can almost  _feel_ the desperate sobs clutching at the base of her throat, threatening to spill. He pulls back and tilts his head, pressing soft kisses there, quieting the whimpers, slowly charting his own course from throat to lips. Kisses designed not to ignite but to soothe, each one a whispered refrain. _I know. It’s okay. I’m okay._

 -- x --

Sometimes, as they lie entwined, bodies sated but souls still desiring, he tells her stories of the other scars, the ones that appeared long before he knew her. It’s easier now for him to open up to her, to tell her things he never believed he could say to another human being. She seldom responds or even interrupts, save for the soothing sounds she makes every time his voice becomes shaky or uncertain. She draws idle circles across his chest, and though invisible, the marks her fingers leave somehow soften the physical scars and - stranger still - heal the intangible ones. The more she leaves her own mark on him, the easier it is for Oliver to tell her about the others. When he’s done, when he’s told her the story and shown her the demon, she often whispers, almost to herself:  _I wish I’d been there. I wish I could have saved you_. It’s a redundant thought, of course, because Felicity would be the first to tell him that they are only here because of where he’d been before.  _I don’t regret a single moment_ , she’d say.  _And neither should you_.

Still, when she sighs her regret in that way it’s impossible not to turn to her, to hold her close and whisper in her ear:  _Don’t you see? You did._ _You do_ _._

 -- x --

He brings her coffee. Almost all the time now (it's a joke within a joke: Felicity's adamancy at bringing him coffee remains unchanged, and Oliver claims it's better this way anyway - at least he can be sure of what's in it), but especially on days that follow nights like these. It's his way of saying thanks:  _thanks for being here, thanks for loving me, thanks for embracing my pain as if it were your own_. If she notices what he's doing she never says - they never talk about the night before - but her smile is always pensive when he hands her the cup, as if she's recalling the times the roles were reversed: when she brought him coffee as a salve, as an offering of peace and unconditional love. They're partners, and it's never truer than in these moments of comforting ritual. At night, she loves him; during the day, he loves her back.

\-- x --

One night, she tells him about her dream. It’s the only time she can; in the dark, in the absence of light. During the day, she feels foolish, like a brilliant thought at three am becomes a terrible mistake in the harsh light of morning. But she finds comfort in the night and in the whispered secrets of their bed, and because he can open his heart, she finds that so can she.

“Sometimes, I dream that you died,” she says. “Not on the mountain. On the bridge. I dream that he killed you, that you fell from the bridge and into that ravine, and I couldn’t save you. I stood there and watched you fall, and I tried to scream for help but there was no sound, and he watched and laughed. You fell and he laughed, and I felt so powerless. I turned around and he'd gone; he’d killed you and disappeared. I’m alone on the bridge. I’m alone because you’re  _gone_. Then I wake up - I always wake up with your name on my lips - and for a moment, for one  _terrifying_ second, it feels real. I open my eyes knowing that you’re gone and it’s like I can’t breathe. I woke up that way for weeks after -  _after_. And it feels like I’m back there again. But then the moment passes, and I turn and you’re here, you’re real and you’re alive, and my heart starts beating again and  _I’m so relieved_ ,  _Oliver._ I’m so relieved and it’s all I can do to keep from crying.”

Oliver knows too well the potency of nightmares, and he thinks back to that moment on the mountain, nearly half a year ago, and he knows that if he had the choice again, he wouldn't hesitate to run his sword through Ra's al Ghul. If it would spare her the nightmares, if there was ever a way he could snatch them from her and grant her a dreamless sleep, every last remaining sliver of his soul would be worth it. He thinks back to all the time he spent pushing her away, desperately trying to protect her from the agony that was his life, and it occurs to him that it in the end, it didn't really matter. All that wasted energy and the result was the same. He couldn't have protected her from that pain, because even at arm’s length, she felt it anyway.

Thinking about how close he’d come to losing her forever - through his own misguided actions and shaky self-esteem - brings a burn to Oliver’s belly in a way that no physical blow ever has, and on every night like this he closes his eyes and thanks every deity and spirit guide he’s ever heard the name of for gifting him with a second chance. For eight years, Oliver’s life has been built upon second chances, but the opportunity to love Felicity, to  _be_ loved by her, is the one that he cherishes the most. And so, when Felicity reveals the depths of her fears to him, Oliver tries to do for her what she so effortlessly does for him. Oliver knows his limitations. Felicity is infinitely better at providing succour than he is, but he is determined to spend the rest of his life learning how to smooth the creases from her forehead, to drink away her tears, to kiss a smile onto her lips. As they turn to each other in the dark, their eyes and hearts and souls aligned, each caress becomes a vow, each smile is a secret only they share, each kiss a sacred promise.  _Never again._

\-- x --

Mornings after nights like these are always heavy, laden with significance. In the early days of their journey, they find themselves tiptoeing around each other, easing themselves back into that light-hearted banter, cautious smiles that turn into wide grins by breakfast and laughter by lunchtime. There’s a palpable relief when this happens. It’s not that it didn’t occur to them that spending so much time in each other’s company - with no buffers, missions or distractions - would encourage an intimacy previously untried; it’s simply that the novelty of having nothing to focus on but  _each other_  creates an intensity that neither of them knows quite what to do with. Weeks and weeks of being on the road; of learning each other, of arguing about what music to play next, of Felicity’s horrified realisation that Oliver’s never seen the  _Star Wars_ trilogy, of Oliver’s bemusement that she seems to care so much about this fact, of visiting museums dedicated to maple syrup, mustard, and potatoes (Felicity is disgusted but also insists on visiting them all), of whispering secrets into each other’s skin at night, of holding each other close through the nightmares, of making promises they intend to keep forever; what most couples do in years, Oliver and Felicity do in weeks. It’s no wonder that sometimes they look at each other in awe, completely overwhelmed by what they see reflected back at them. To Oliver's surprise, he's not the only one who has to learn to adjust to and accept Felicity’s love. For all her openness and emotional maturity, even Felicity sometimes struggles with letting Oliver in. They fight, of course, and Oliver seems to positively  _revel_ in their arguments, further frustrating Felicity. She doesn’t understand it, but he relishes both the familiarity of these fights, like a dance they’ve practised to perfection, and the sharp, new edges brought out by the shifting sands of their relationship. It’s a bizarre feeling, both knowing and not knowing someone, but as time goes on the scales begin to balance, previously uncharted landscapes are mapped and explored, and the picture of  _them_  becomes clearer and more defined: who they are as individuals is more readily determined; but it is in learning who they are with each other that Oliver and Felicity truly find absolution.

\-- x --

One morning, three and a half months after they first set off on their journey, Felicity stirs just as the sun is beginning to spread its wings. This time of day is unusual for her, but for once she awakens with a lightness in her heart and a smile on her face. As her mind and body wake up, both instinctively search for Oliver (this too is a pattern - one that Felicity has wasted no time in getting used to). There he is next to her, as always; half-awake already. Since the night she told him about her dream, Oliver has made it a point to always be there when she opens her eyes. Every morning, he is the first thing she sees, and Felicity’s more grateful for his thoughtfulness than she could ever put in words. He has become so good at chasing away her nightmares.

Today is different. A benefit of waking up before him is that Felicity can study his face at leisure. There was a time when Oliver hardly ever slept, and when he did, his face betrayed the torturous nature of his dreams. Now, more and more he seems to sleep at peace: his brow uncreased, his body at ease. This pleases her because it means that finally, he's letting go of the ghosts that have haunted him for so long. 

When he wakes up, she decides, she’ll tell him that she hasn’t dreamed in weeks. At first she hadn’t wanted to jinx it, thinking it might be a fluke. But after two weeks of dreamless sleep, she’s ready to believe that the page has finally been turned. The past is gone. Whatever comes next will be a new chapter in their lives. Oliver used to tell her that he could only see one path for his life to take. Even as she had tried to convince him otherwise, a part of her had always been terrified that he was right, that there was only one way in which his life - their life - could end. Then he told her how often he dreamed of a future, of a different way, of a life they could live together. She hasn't yet told him how often she used to have the same dream, back when she kept them to herself. Felicity knows that life is full of surprises, that nothing ever remains the same, that the work they choose will continue to throw whatever pain and misery and hardship it can at them; but as the sunlight streams in through the open windows, unabashed and unfiltered, it’s easy to believe that life will always be this bright, and she’s thankful for whatever combination of luck and timing and serendipity has led to this interlude in their lives; this perfectly magical moment that has allowed them to heal, to learn, and to love.

The time for quiet dreams is over, she thinks. Life is loud and bright and  _real_ , and here it finally is.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos saves lives! (or makes fic writers very, very happy) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
